The Empty Hearth

by Kitty Neale

Genres: Sagas

Synopsis

The Pratchett family have to contend with coalman Alfie Pratchett's obsessive jealousy. A bully, his two teenage children, John and Millie, have learned to dodge him and his moods. The main concern of ugly duckling Millie - who looks nothing like her handsome brother John - is to protect their mum, Eileen.When crisis strikes the Pratchetts' home, Alfie is forced to watch his whole world gradually collapse around him. Their old life has gone forever, and a new one has begun - one in which rape, debt, alcoholism and insanity play their parts. And redemption is a long time coming.

Release date: December 8, 2011

Publisher: Orion Publishing Group

Print pages: 352

Sample

Battersea, South London, 1954

‘God, the girl’s as plain as a pikestaff! He shouldn’t bring her here, she’s enough to frighten the horses.’

‘Shush, she’ll hear you.’

Millie Pratchett had heard, and glancing quickly at her brother John, she was relieved that he’d missed the remarks made by the stableman, knowing that if he had, he would have jumped to her defence.

The comment had cut her to the quick, and as she walked along beside her brother Millie wondered yet again why she was so different from the rest of her family. ‘John, why am I ugly?’

Her brother’s head shot round. ‘Ugly!’ he exclaimed as his neck seemed to stretch out of his collar. ‘You’re not ugly,’ and looking down he studied her features. ‘You’ve got nice, big brown eyes, and anyway,’ he added, with a shrug of his shoulders, ‘lots of girls are plain at your age. Wait and see, when you get older you’ll change. You’ve heard that song haven’t you, the one about the ugly duckling that turns into a beautiful swan? That’ll be you, Millie. One day you’ll turn into a beautiful swan too.’

Oh John, she thought, lowering her pain-filled eyes from his. Her brother was trying to be kind, he always tried to be kind, yet his words still had the power to hurt her. Plain, he said – and was that any different from ugly?

Change? No, she wouldn’t change; at nearly fifteen her features were set. When looking in her mirror she saw a long, thin face, framed by straight, mousy-coloured hair. Her nose was long and thin too, as was her mouth. John said she had nice eyes, but to her they were like those of a cow, and slightly bulbous. Millie sighed deeply, wishing that she took after their mother. Eileen Pratchett had beautiful blonde hair, deep blue eyes that always looked soft and dreamy, and skin like porcelain.

‘Samson’s pleased to see us,’ John said, hearing the horse snickering a welcome as they approached the stable. He patted his thick neck, saying affectionately, ‘Look who’s come to see you, lad.’

Millie reached into her coat pocket to find a piece of apple, and holding it out on the palm of her hand she said softly, ‘Here, boy.’

Samson tossed his huge head up and down in a nodding motion of excitement, and then lowering his mouth to Millie’s hand he snuffled the apple before gently taking it.

‘I wish I could come out on the cart with you, John.’

‘Don’t be daft, it ain’t a girl’s job.’

Millie hid a smile. It was lucky their mother wasn’t around to hear him saying ‘ain’t’. Though they lived in a working-class area of London, their mother was determined that her children should speak correctly as she called it. It had caused them no end of problems growing up in Battersea, and they’d suffered much name-calling. John had fought many fights in their defence, but it had made him tough, and nowadays nobody would dare to deride him.

Her brother now began to croon softly to Samson as he groomed him, instructing her to give the carthorse another piece of apple. ‘Hurry up, Millie. It’s the only way to keep him still.’

She quickly held out her hand, and as the horse munched on the core he quietened again. Samson was gentle in nature, except when it came to grooming, and they’d soon found that this little treat was the only way to placate him.

When their tasks were completed, John said, ‘Come on, I’m flippin’ freezing and we’d best be off. Mum won’t be happy if we’re late for dinner.’

Millie gave Samson another affectionate pat before they left, and approaching the gate she looked the other way as they passed the two men again, relieved when this time they made no derogatory comments.

Once outside the depot she hooked an arm through John’s, slowing his stride. She was determined to bring up the subject again – a subject he always skirted. ‘John, you said that one day you’d explain to me why Dad acts the way he does.’

‘Oh, not this again. For Christ’s sake, Millie, it ain’t so bad, and anyway I don’t think you’re old enough to understand yet.’

‘Of course I am. For goodness’ sake, I leave school at Easter.’

‘I don’t know why you have to harp on about it. All right, we have to be careful, ’cos if we’re not it’s Mum that has to put up with his moods. But Dad’s never laid a hand on us and you’ve seen the way Billy Benson belts his kids. How would you fancy him as a father?’

‘I wouldn’t, he’s a brute, but I still don’t understand. She’s our mother, for God’s sake, and why shouldn’t she cuddle us?’

‘We’re too big for all that now, so why don’t you just forget it?’

‘I can’t, John. Have you forgotten what it was like when you were a little boy? Dad would fly into a temper if you so much as sat on Mum’s lap.’

‘Of course I haven’t forgotten, but we’ve survived, ain’t we?’

‘Stop saying ain’t or Mum will have your guts for garters. Anyway, I know we’ve survived, but I still need to understand why she can’t even give us a hug.’

Her brother’s breath came out in a long sigh. ‘It’s a bit hard to explain.’

Millie tugged on John’s arm, and as he drew to a halt she said, ‘Please try.’

‘All right. If it’s the only way I’m going to get any peace, I’ll do my best.’ And scratching his chin as though to gather his thoughts, he then said, ‘Dad loves Mum – loves her to the point of obsession. He behaves the way he does because he’s jealous when she shows us any affection.’

‘Jealous!’ she cried in amazement. ‘How can he be jealous of his own children?’

‘I don’t know. His love is warped in some way, but don’t ask me to explain why, because I can’t.’

‘He must be barmy! How can you say he loves her when she’s not allowed to touch her own children? God, when I think of the tantrums she’s had to put up with.’

‘Don’t exaggerate. All right, when Dad’s in a mood he can be murder, but all we have to do is keep away from Mum when he’s around.’

‘Oh, and that’s supposed to make it all right, is it?’ Millie snapped, bristling with indignation. ‘I can’t believe you’re defending him!’

‘I’m not defending him.’

‘It sounds as if you are to me. As soon as you started working with Dad you changed your tune, and now you two are as thick as thieves!’ Anger increased her pace, and as they turned into Harmond Street, John grabbed her arm.

‘Calm down, Millie. Dad isn’t so bad, and when we’re out on the round he’s like a different person. In fact, we often have a good laugh.’

‘Well, all I can say is you’re lucky, because I’ve never seen that side of him. Laugh! When was the last time he laughed when I’m around?’

‘Look, that’s enough now. Mum will know something’s wrong if you go indoors with that expression on your face.’

Millie glared at her brother, but as they reached number ten she fought to gain her composure. John was right, and the last thing she wanted was to upset her mother. She watched now as her brother put the key in the lock, and bracing herself, followed him indoors.

Eileen Pratchett heard the kitchen door open and despite having her back to them, she knew it was the children. Embarrassed, she tried to pull herself out of her husband’s embrace, but Alfie Pratchett held on, staring at Millie and John over his wife’s shoulder with a look of triumph in his eyes.

‘Come on, Alfie, let me go,’ she gently admonished.

‘Why do you pull away from me just ’cos the kids ’ave come in?’ he snapped, his face suffusing with colour. ‘I was only giving you a cuddle, for Gawd’s sake. Anybody would think I had you on the floor, the way you’re carrying on.’

‘Shush, dear,’ Eileen said, her own face flushing, and recognising the signs of an imminent tantrum she tried to defuse the situation. ‘Of course you can cuddle me. It’s just that I need to go to the lavvie,’ she whispered.

Alfie released her abruptly, and giving him a quick conciliatory smile she hurried from the room.

On reaching the tiny upstairs bathroom Eileen closed the door, her stomach jumping with nerves. God, if the kids had come in five minutes later they might have seen more than just a cuddle. Held in Alfie’s arms she could feel his passion mounting as yet again he wanted to assert his dominance over her. And that’s what it was – dominance, not love. How much longer could she go on? How much longer could she live on her nerves like this? They’d been married for over sixteen years and Alfie’s passion never waned. If anything it seemed to grow, strangling the life out of her year after year.

It was at times like this when she doubted her faith, doubted her religion, one that forbade both contraceptives and divorce.

She washed her hands and then splashed cold water onto her face. Somehow she had to break the news to her husband, but dreaded his reaction. Alfie would go mad, she knew that, but when all was said and done it wasn’t her fault. If he’d just leave her alone this wouldn’t have happened. And the children, what would they say?

After scrubbing her face roughly with a towel, Eileen took a deep breath. Should she tell them now and get it over with, or wait until she and Alfie were in bed? Staring at herself in the mirror as if expecting the face reflected back to answer her question, she bit hard on her bottom lip. Later, I’ll wait till later, she finally decided. At least then, if Alfie made a fuss, the children wouldn’t have to see it.

Stiffening her shoulders, Eileen made her way back to the kitchen, opening the door tentatively. Alfie was sitting in a fireside chair reading the newspaper, whilst Millicent was perched at the table looking at him warily. The room was strangely silent, the atmosphere heavy, and there was no sign of John. Poor Millie, she was always a bundle of nerves when her father was around, and it was hardly surprising. After all these years Alfie still seethed with resentment, and sometimes there was hate in his eyes when he looked at his daughter. Fortunately he was never violent; in fact, he hardly acknowledged the girl’s existence, and though Eileen did her best to compensate, it was impossible when Alfie was around.

Catching her daughter’s eye now, she mouthed the question, and with a slight inflection of her head Millie indicated that John was upstairs.

‘Dinner’s nearly ready so would you lay the table, please.’

‘Yes, all right, Mum.’

As Eileen drained the vegetables her thoughts were still distracted and her tummy fluttered as she glanced across at her husband. She hadn’t expected to fall pregnant again, not after what she’d gone through the last time, and the doctor had said it would be unlikely. So why now? Why, after all these years?

The hot steam rising from the saucepan scorched her face, forcing her to concentrate on the task in hand, and after placing the plates on the table she crossed to the bottom of the stairs. ‘John, come on! Dinner’s ready.’

As her son came clattering down she smiled at him fondly. He was the light of her life, and though almost a replica of Alfie in looks, being tall with jet-black hair and green eyes, his nature was the exact opposite. He was a sensitive and caring lad – unlike his father.

‘That looks tasty,’ he grinned, pulling out a chair and licking his lips at the sight of lamb chops, potatoes and vegetables.

Eileen shook her head frantically. What was John thinking of, daring to sit down before his father! Was he looking for trouble? ‘Alfie, dinner’s ready,’ she said urgently, trying to avert what could be a disaster.

It was one of her husband’s rules, one that he expected to be obeyed without question. He would sit down first, followed by both her and the children, and woe betide them if this routine wasn’t kept to. It was something his own father had insisted on, and until both his parents had died, Alfie had deferred to them. Eileen grimaced as she thought about old Percy Pratchett, a taciturn man who had ruled his family with a rod of iron. After his death Alfie had taken up not only the old man’s coal-round, but his persona too, becoming almost a replica in his demands for obedience.

As her husband took his seat Eileen nodded gently to her children, indicating they could now sit down. With her hands clenched in her lap she gave a silent prayer of thanks for the food, knowing that it was something she couldn’t do out loud.

Why had she done it? Eileen agonised, and it was the same question that plagued her, year after year. In the beginning she’d thought herself in love with Alfie and still played the scene over and over in her mind. She remembered saying no, remembered fighting Alfie’s hands, but had little strength against him. Alfie had overwhelmed her, held her down, yet even now she wondered if she could have tried harder to resist.

‘Would you pass the gravy, Mum.’

‘Sorry, John, what did you say?’

‘You were miles away. I asked for the gravy.’

Eileen gave him the jug, watching as he poured the rich dark liquid over his lamb chops. He then looked across the table and as their eyes met she felt a surge of love. ‘How was work today, Son?’

‘Fine, and are you all right?’

‘Yes, dear.’

‘Ain’t you gonna ask how my day went?’ Alfie asked sarcastically. ‘Or are you only interested in yer son?’

‘Of course I’m not, and I was just about to ask you the same question.’ She saw the sneer on her husband’s face, wondering why he felt such rivalry. John was his son too, but Alfie saw him as competition – competition for her attention.

Her mind drifted once again to the past, remembering when she’d fallen pregnant. Her father had nearly had a fit; and she’d been thrown out of the house without ceremony. With no one else to turn to she’d been forced to go to Alfie, and though his parents had also shown disapproval, they’d taken her in.

After her parents’ spacious house it had felt strange to be living in a tiny terrace, and she hated the lack of privacy. Mrs Pratchett had a room that she called her best, unusually situated at the back of the house, which she kept in pristine condition. It was hardly ever used, and so the whole family sat in the kitchen, Alfie’s parents in the only comfortable chairs set around the fire. She and Alfie had to sit at the kitchen table on hard wooden seats, and every evening Mr Pratchett demanded silence whilst he listened to the wireless. It had seemed a strange and alien household in those days, but in her ignorance she had thought it would be different when she and Alfie had their own home.

‘Are there any more spuds? Eileen … I’m talking to you!’

With a start she looked at her husband. ‘Sorry, what did you say?’

‘Christ, woman, I might as well talk to myself. I said I want more potatoes.’

‘I’ll get you some,’ she said, scuttling from her chair, unable to miss the concern on her daughter’s face. Oh Millie, I wasn’t always like this, she thought, hating this show of meekness, but years of marriage to Alfie had drained all the fight out of her.

There were a few more potatoes in the pan and as Eileen spooned them onto Alfie’s plate she remembered her earlier courage. Of course, in the beginning she’d had no idea of what she was letting herself in for, and bravely refused to get married in a register office. Alfie, like his parents, wasn’t a Catholic, and no amount of persuasion from the priest all those years ago had convinced him to turn. He had finally agreed to allow their children to be brought up as Catholics, enabling him to marry her in St Margaret’s, but it was a promise he failed to keep. Shortly after their marriage he’d forbidden the priest to enter their house, and returning to her chair Eileen remembered her shame and humiliation when Father McEwan had been unceremoniously turned away from their door.

Yet now Eileen wondered why she kept up her faith, a faith that held her tied to this man. So many times she’d asked herself this question, and the answer was always the same. Without her beliefs, life would seem empty, meaningless, and many times when in despair, the Church was her only comfort.

Now she was living in a house identical to the Pratchetts’, and lifting her fork she picked at her food, listening to Alfie and John talking, the subject the coal-round as usual.

Why on earth had her son chosen to follow in his father’s footsteps, instead of continuing with his education? John was an intelligent boy and could have gone on to college, but instead he’d left school at fifteen, becoming a coalman like his father. She had tried to talk to him about it, tried to persuade him to stay on at school, but he wouldn’t hear of it. ‘The Pratchetts have always been coalmen!’ he’d protested, his voice ringing with pride. A pride she was at a loss to understand.

The evening passed and reluctantly Eileen got ready for bed. It was freezing in their spartan bedroom and she shivered not just from the cold, but with fear. She had to tell Alfie she was pregnant, but cringed at the prospect.

Now, hoping that both Millie and John were asleep, she sucked in a deep breath before speaking. ‘I … I’ve got something to tell you, dear. Now promise me you’ll stay calm.’

In some ways it was the worst thing she could have said, because he paused in the act of shrugging off his braces, turning to look at her with his brow furrowed. ‘Oh yeah? That sounds ominous. Spit it out then.’

‘I … I haven’t had a show for two months.’

‘What! No, you can’t be, not after all this time!’

‘I am, Alfie.’

‘Christ, woman, how could you? No, I ain’t standing for it.’

‘What do you expect me to do?’ she pleaded, and showing a bit of spirit added, ‘It takes two, you know, so don’t lay all the blame on me.’

The look her husband gave her was venomous. ‘I’ve been careful, Eileen. I’m always careful,’ and with narrowed eyes he spat, ‘Is it mine?’

‘Of course it is! How can you say that? I’ve never been unfaithful and you know it, which is more than I can say about you,’ she said on an aside, wondering at her second show of bravery.

‘Shut up! I’m sick of you throwing that in my face.’

‘But I haven’t mentioned it for years!’

‘Next you’ll be making digs about there always being a constant reminder,’ and before Eileen had time to refute that comment, he added, ‘Anyway, like I said, I don’t want any more kids so you’ll ’ave to get rid of it.’

‘No, it goes against my beliefs.’

‘Your beliefs mean nothing to me – they’re a load of old tosh. I’m warning you, woman, don’t try to defy me. You’ll do as I say and get rid of it.’

‘It’s impossible, and even if I went against the teachings of the Church, the doctor would never agree to it. That only leaves a back-street abortionist, and surely you don’t expect me to go to one of those?’

‘I don’t see why not. Others ’ave done it, so why not you? But then you’ve always thought yourself a cut above the rest of us, ’aven’t you. Too good for Battersea, too good for this street, and too good to be married to a lowly coalman.’

‘You know that isn’t true.’

‘Yes, it is. Yer father was an accountant, yer mother a schoolteacher, and you grew up in that big house in Streatham. Yet who took you in when you got pregnant, eh? Who married you? Me – yes, me! Huh, and yer posh parents didn’t leave you a penny when they died, did they? No, the bastards left everything they owned to the Church.’

Eileen closed her eyes in despair. Why did Alfie have to keep harping on about it? Yes, her parents had disowned her, but she had let them down badly. They were strictly religious and she hadn’t been surprised at the decision to cut her out of their will. ‘Alfie, I’m not going into all that again now, and as for marrying me, it was your baby I was carrying,’ she said, this argument a familiar one.

‘Huh, so you told me.’

‘But you’ve only got to look at John to see that he’s your son. You’re like two peas in a pod.’

Alfie sat on the side of the bed, his shoulders stiff. ‘All right, all right, so he’s mine, but to get back to the subject in hand, I don’t want another kid and that’s an end to it. You can ’ave a word with Granny Baxter at number seventeen, she’ll get rid of it for you.’

‘No, I can’t! I can’t!’

‘You’ll do as I bloody well say!’ he yelled, spittle flying out of his mouth.

‘I won’t have an abortion!’

‘I said you will!’

Determined to protect the tiny life growing within her, Eileen stood her ground, amazed at her own courage. The argument raged, but then suddenly there was a moment of silence, whilst Alfie, his eyes dark with anger, glared at her. Then, like a chameleon, his demeanour suddenly changed. He licked his lips lasciviously, a slow smile spreading across his features.

Oh, God help me, Eileen thought, her legs beginning to tremble, any further protests dying on her lips as her husband stood up and began walking slowly towards her. He wouldn’t hit her, she knew that – but there were worse forms of punishment. ‘No, Alfie, please don’t.’

John, seeing the mood his father was in, watched him warily. He’d heard shouting coming from his parents’ bedroom the night before, but had been unable to hear what the row was about and now, as they left the house to go to the coal depot, he decided that it might be prudent to keep his mouth shut.

As they turned onto Lavender Hill his teeth chattered. It was early on this January morning, the busy main road was quiet, and as they stepped over the tramlines it began to drizzle with rain. He hated rainy days, hated the smell of wet coal and damp sacks. However, the walk was brisk, and by the time they reached the yard he’d warmed up, greeting the other coalmen as they entered the gates.

‘See to Samson, and get his nosebag ready for later,’ his father ordered brusquely.

‘All right, Dad,’ John answered quietly, making his way to the stable. As usual the horse whinnied a welcome and he stroked his neck affectionately, smiling as he said, ‘Hello, boy.’

In no time John had completed his tasks, glad that the sky had cleared. He gave Samson another pat before heading for the scales, joining the gang of men who were shovelling coal into hundredweight sacks in preparation for their rounds.

All the men had broad shoulders with slightly bowed legs, a legacy of years of lifting, and in a very short space of time all were covered in coal-dust, the whites of their eyes gleaming in the early-morning light. John still looked in amazement at how easily they lifted the sacks, and though their backs bent they made it look easy as they heaved their load, first onto the raised centre, and then onto the shelves on each side of the carts.

‘Come on, get a move on!’ his father snapped. ‘We’ve got a big round today and I want to get away early.’

Stooping low, John held his breath as a sack was placed on his shoulders. He’d been working with his father for a year now, and though his muscles were developing, each sack felt as though it weighed far more than a hundredweight.

However, with his father’s help the job was completed, and now Samson just had to be given some water before being led into the staves. He was a lovely horse, mostly chestnut brown, but with a white blaze on his face, and John hated the load he had to pull when they first left the yard. Both he and his father would walk the first part of the round to lessen the weight, but with a hill to start the round today, Samson had an extra burden.

They were ready now, and as his father said, ‘Come on, let’s be off,’ John led the horse out of the gates.

Wendy Hall stood at the upstairs window of the flat above the ironmonger’s, and with a good view along Lavender Hill she watched the coal-wagon as it passed, her eyes fixed on John Pratchett. God, he was gorgeous, but despite trying she’d been unable to catch his attention. Why didn’t he notice her? They had gone to the same school, but in those days it wasn’t surprising that she hadn’t caught his eye. Boys showed little interest in girls and at break times they were segregated into different playgrounds. She had looked through the dividing gate on many occasions, and watched John playing football with a crowd of his friends, all totally engrossed in the game.

Nowadays though, thanks to her petite but shapely looks, she was used to attention from blokes. Only five feet in height with honey-blonde hair – home-permed with a Toni kit – and baby-blue eyes, Wendy knew she was referred to as ‘cute’. Yet John Pratchett hadn’t given her so much as a glance.

The wagon now went out of sight and with a pout she bent over to fasten the last suspender to her stocking-top. Then, smoothing her straight, calf-length black skirt she looked in the mirror. Her white blouse with its Peter Pan collar just needed retucking, and after adding a black-patent belt she was happy with her appearance. With a swift final glance at her stocking seams, she grabbed her three-quarter-length swagger coat from the wardrobe before hurrying downstairs, asking as she entered the kitchen, ‘Do I look all right, Mum?’

Bertha Hill’s eyes roamed over her daughter. ‘Yeah, you look a treat.’

‘It’ll be my first time on a proper switchboard today.’

‘You’re a lucky girl. Once you’ve finished training you’ll be able to work anywhere. All the jobs I’ve seen advertised for telephonists ask for GPO-trained staff.’

‘Yes, I know, but I just hope I can keep up this posh accent. I didn’t have to worry when I was a packer, but now …’

‘You passed the interview so you must be doing all right. Mind you, it didn’t half take a long time to hear you’d got the job.’

‘I know, but they check your background really thoroughly and I had to sign the Official Secrets Act too.’

‘Sit down and eat yer breakfast ’cos I don’t want you going out on an empty stomach. Here, hold on – check yer background indeed! We may not ’ave much, my girl, but we’ve nothing to be ashamed of.’

Wendy smiled at the indignant look on her mum’s face. The two of them were close, similar in build, and both the same height. Mind you, small as her mother was, she wasn’t someone you messed with, and if she lost her temper, God help you.

‘I know that, Mum, but the Civil Service do background checks on all their employees.’

Bertha rubbed her knees, a grimace on her face, and seeing this Wendy frowned. She hated the fact that her mother had to get up at five o’clock every morning to do office cleaning. It was the outside steps and staircases that played havoc with her mother’s knees, and years of toil were wearing her down, making her look prematurely old.

‘You’ve got a right gob on, Wendy. What’s up, love?’

‘I was just thinking that you look tired.’

‘Stop worrying, I’m fine.’

‘If you say so,’ Wendy said, used to being fobbed off whenever her mother’s health came into question. She glanced at the clock and quickly drained her cup. ‘I’d best be off or I’ll be late for my first shift. I’ll see you at about six this evening.’

‘Yeah, all right, and I’ll make a nice meat pie for our tea.’

‘Great! I’ll see ya later,’ Wendy called, hurrying down the narrow flight of stairs. Once outside, she walked briskly along Lavender Hill, heading for Clapham Junction railway station. Steam trains hissed and clanked over rails, the huge intersection busy as Wendy joined the throng of people on the platform. She was surrounded by men in smart three-piece suits, some in overcoats and bowler hats, and most clutching briefcases with newspapers tucked under their arms. Others wore trenchcoats and trilby hats – equally smart, but reminding Wendy of the spy stories she loved to read.

The women were dressed smartly too, wearing a variety of hats, and perhaps heading for the many offices in Victoria. Wendy loved to fantasise about the other passengers, making up stories in her head about their lives. Of course they were all rubbish she thought, a small smile on her face, but it helped to pass the journey.

A train hooted as it came in, appearing like a wild beast with huge pistons fighting and heaving to slow down the metal wheels. Smoke billowed from the funnel and, as though proud of its achievement, when the engine drew to a halt it let out what sounded like a huge sigh. Steam belched out, engulfing both the engine and the passengers daft enough to stand at the far end of the platform.

There was a surge in the crowd towards the carriages, and hoping to get a seat Wendy quickly stepped forward. The man in front of her opened the door, politely indicating with a wave of his arm that she should get on first. She smiled prettily at him, raising her foot to step into the carriage, but at that moment her shoe came off, falling between the platform and the train.

She hopped on one foot, staring at the man with horror, her blue eyes wide. ‘My shoe! I’ve lost my shoe!’

‘Oh dear, I think you’ll have to wait until the train pulls out and then ask one of the guards to retrieve it for you.’

‘Yes, yes, of course,’ Wendy said, her face red with humiliation as she watched the man climbing aboard the train, followed by other passengers who were smiling with amusement. As the carriage door closed firmly Wendy looked wildly about her. Oh God, this was awful, she was going to be late! On her first shift she was going to be late, and w